


Cease to Mourn the Ravish'd Hair

by Brigdh



Category: Benjamin January Mysteries - Barbara Hambly
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Hair, Multi, Polyamory, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-17 18:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brigdh/pseuds/Brigdh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal dyes his hair, Rose helps, and Ben is mostly amused.</p><p>(Set shortly after <i>Ran Away</i>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cease to Mourn the Ravish'd Hair

**Author's Note:**

> Set shortly after "Ran Away"; spoilers for a minor plot point in that book.
> 
> A million, million thanks to Silverflight and Somebraveapollo for being awesome betas and making this much better.

January arrived home in the blue twilight of early evening, the time of day when lights were just beginning to warm the windows he passed along the street. His own house looked dark and empty as he climbed up to the gallery, but once he’d entered he could hear Rose speaking, a low, calm murmur with the air of one recording observations. Another voice, male, answered her, and January smiled to himself. He put away his coat and hat and music satchel, and followed the voices up to Rose’s laboratory. 

But he stopped short in the doorway, whatever he might have said vanishing from his mind. Hannibal was there, yes, but he was sitting on the floor, wearing not his usual shabby coat and old-fashioned waistcoat, but only a calico shirt that January recognized as his own, one he’d recently consigned to the rag-bin. It hung absurdly large on Hannibal’s thin frame, and left him looking half-undressed, as though if he wasn’t careful it might fall off. His head was tipped back to accommodate Rose, who had divided out a lock of his hair and stretched it across her work table, where she was engaged in treating it with some liquid. The rest of his hair hung in little tails, each a different color, ranging from the bright pink of bougainvillea through brick red to mahogany’s rich reddish brown. 

Seeing January, Hannibal started to sit up, but Rose pinned his hair to the table with stained fingers. “Don’t move. You’re dripping, and I have no idea what this would do to the carpet.”

“My love,” January said, having recovered himself. “Is there a particular reason why you’re torturing Hannibal?”

Rose turned in surprise, a smile lighting her face. “Torture indeed. He agreed entirely willingly to let me experiment.” She paused to let January kiss her, carefully holding her hands away from his clothes. Her hair was tied back to make it easier for her to work, but she’d taken off her tignon, since it was late enough that visitors were unlikely– except, that is, for Hannibal. Not that Hannibal was exactly a visitor, given the amount of time he spent in their house. It would have been easier for him to simply move in, and January had repeatedly invited him to do just that; it was only Hannibal’s concern for Rose’s reputation, and that of her school, that prevented him. 

A few silky brown curls had escaped from the bun at the base of Rose’s neck, and they softened the narrowness of her face. Her grey-green eyes were wry behind her spectacles as she stepped back. “Of course, I may have promised him some of Gabriel’s callas.”

“None of which I have yet received,” Hannibal said, though he obediently maintained his position as Rose returned to whatever she was doing with his hair. She picked up a small jar of a dark purple solution and very carefully poured it over the strand she had separated out, testing the saturation with her other hand. “Not that I would accuse your wife of lying, _amicus meus_...”

She swatted his shoulder, where the shirt was already discolored in splashes and drops. “He’ll be back tomorrow morning. As I already said.”

January brought a chair up to the side of the table and sat, leaning forward to examine one of Hannibal’s pigtails, this one a vibrant orange shade, like the inside of a fresh carrot. “Well, in that case it’s clearly not torture. But what are you doing?”

“You remember that you told me Hannibal was dying his hair to impersonate M’sieu Valentine– the late lamented–”

“ _And go we know not where / to lie in cold obstruction and to rot_ ,” murmured Hannibal, but Rose ignored him and continued her explanation.

“And I’d been thinking about hair lately, and how it takes its color and shape. So I asked him to come by, the next time he was in disguise.” She turned her face away, not quickly enough to hide a wicked grin. “I didn’t expect the henna to have done quite such a terrible job.”

Hannibal glanced at January from the corner of his eyes, the most he could do without moving his head. “She laughed so hard that I thought she might be having hysterics. She had to sit down.” He sounded resigned to the indignity of his position, but then added in a tone of contemplation, “It’s probably a good thing I’d already taken off the false whiskers.”

“If you’d seen him, Ben.” There was suppressed laughter in her voice.

“He couldn’t have possibly looked more ridiculous than he does now,” January said, and shrugged apologetically at Hannibal’s raised eyebrows.

“I’ll have you know that Kate said I looked very believable.”

“In that color?” Rose exclaimed, at the same time as January said, “Kate the Gouger complimented you?”

“Well, she did,” Hannibal said defensively. “Although I’m not denying that she’d begun drinking rather early this morning, even for her.” 

“Did she ask why you were possessed of the sudden need to dye your head the color of a tomato?”

“I told her it was because of creditors.” Hannibal shrugged. “Which is actually true, if for once it’s not my debts they’re after.”

“I thought there must be some way to create a better color.” Rose sighed and ran her fingers over Hannibal’s pigtails, holding one then another up to the light. “Though nothing I’ve tried seems to be an improvement over the henna itself. Of course, most of these have yet to dry; that may change the shade.”

January glanced up at her expression of analytical concentration, affection for her warming his heart. He sat back in his chair and threw up a hand, declaring in a tone of expansiveness, “If you discover a better way to dye hair, we’ll never have to worry about money again. Every whore on Perdidio Street will line up outside our door, eager to buy.”

Hannibal snorted. “If you think the ladies of the Swamp are the only ones in this town changing the color of their hair, you’re more innocent than I’d realized. I’ve noticed some colors in the Théâtre d’Orléans that weren’t placed there by God. Not everyone, alas, wants to be loved _for myself alone / And not my yellow hair_.”

“Who?” January said, intrigued despite himself. 

“La Redfern, for one-”

“I’m sure this is utterly fascinating gossip,” Rose interrupted. “But it’s not particularly relevant. No one who attends the white subscription balls is going to admit to dying their hair by coming to a school for colored girls.”

“They’d send their maids,” said Hannibal, with an air of helpfulness. 

Rose shook her head and didn’t bother to reply. She tied off the strand of his hair she’d been working on with a bit of black string, wiped her hands on her already-dirtied apron, and turned to the notebook she had sitting open on the work table, seating herself on the stool waiting nearby. “There. You can sit up now.”

Hannibal did so slowly, tucking his chin against his chest and rubbing at the back of his neck. “I expect to be remembered, in honor of my labors in the service of natural philosophy.”

“Oh, yes,” Rose said distractedly, looking away from the notebook to one of a collection of small jars on the work table, turning it a bit so that she could read the label. “Your name is being carved on plinths of stone as we speak.”

“Here is memorialized Hannibal Sefton,” January added, “who sacrificed the color of his hair.”

Hannibal looked up at him with an expression of blatantly false innocence. “So you would let her do it to you?” 

January immediately raised his hands in surrender. “While I would do anything that Rose might ask, I’m sure in this case she’ll agree it’s unnecessary. Won’t she?”

“No. He’s right,” Rose said, glancing over her shoulder at January. “It would be interesting to see if the chemicals work differently on a black man’s hair.”

Hannibal was mostly succeeding in not laughing at him, but January kicked him in the ankle anyway. “See what you’ve done? Betrayed me, and given her evil ideas.” 

“No ideas I didn’t have already.” Rose smiled at them both, and January couldn’t tell if she was teasing or in earnest. “It doesn’t have to be red, you know.”

He decided to treat the situation as serious. “Gabriel’s hair is longer than mine.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Rose said calmly, “if you go and fetch me some coffee.”

January stood with what was probably not unseemly hastiness. “Like I said: anything you ask.”

Hannibal began to rise, but Rose pointed at the floor. “Not you. I’m still taking notes on that last color; I’ll need you here.”

“I’ll bring you some,” January said sympathetically, and Hannibal pressed a hand over his heart in silent gratitude.

It didn’t take him long, but when he returned, gingerly balancing three cups and a too-warm coffee pot, Hannibal and Rose were standing side by side at the table. As January watched, Rose pounded something in a mortar, with Hannibal adding a few drops of water from a small pitcher whenever she paused. Hannibal was less than absorbed by his task, though, and he kept looking away, sneaking glances at Rose’s face. She finished, and took the pitcher from him to set aside, but Hannibal caught one of her hands in his, stopping her. He reached up with the other and touched her hair where it had fallen free against her neck; his fingers were so light that the curl barely moved. He seemed about to speak– poetry, most likely– but Rose leaned forward and pecked him on the lips, then pulled from his loosened grasp to set the pitcher down safely.

January turned aside and set the cups down on a side-table, far from whatever chemicals lurked on the other side of the room. He busied himself for a moment with preparing the coffee- black for Rose, with sugar for Hannibal and himself- and the rich, dark smell of the brew temporarily overwhelmed the laboratory’s acrid scent. It summoned Rose and Hannibal, and they appeared at his sides, each claiming a cup. 

Hannibal wrapped both hands around his cup to warm them. “Thank you. I think I was beginning to wither away.” 

Rose rolled her eyes, drinking quickly her own coffee quickly. “It’s hard to feel much sympathy for a man who looks like he’s wearing a basket of streaky yarn on his head. It distracts from your pallor.”

“It’s not a color– colors– for the sensitive,” January agreed, hiding his smile in his cup. 

Hannibal shrugged, willing to concede the point. “But surely it’s unjust to hold me responsible for my current condition, when it’s of Athénê’s creation?”

“Agreed. Ben and I swear to declare you innocent of any consequences arising from your hair color.” Rose finished her coffee and set the cup firmly on the table. “Now sit down again; there’s one last compound I want to try tonight, and then we’ll be done.”

Hannibal reluctantly put down his own cup, still nearly full, and followed her to the work table, arranging himself tailor-fashion on the floor. January took the time to refill all three cups before carrying them to the others; Rose smiled as he handed her one, but set it aside on a shelf where she wouldn’t absentmindedly spill it. Hannibal, in contrast, lowered his face to breathe in the steam like a man long-deprived, then took a sip with a hum of satisfaction.

Rose gave him a moment to finish and straighten up, then combed out the hair on the left side of his head; it was loose there, without the multicolored tails on his right and back. She ran her hand through his hair, the rusty red-orange strands trying to snarl around her fingers, but she moved slowly and gently to smooth away any tangles before they formed. Hannibal sank back under her touch until he was mostly lying against her, face next to her thighs and coal-black eyes steadily watching January. Eventually Rose reached down and touched his chin, tilting his face up and back so she could lie a single lock of his hair flat across the surface of the table. Hannibal’s eyes dropped half-closed as her fingers slid distractedly down the line of his jaw, coming to rest on his shoulder. The collar of the shirt he had on was too large to close properly, and it exposed his throat all the way down to the hollow over his collarbones. 

January looked down at the cup of coffee in his hands. “Are you going to spend the night, Hannibal?”

“A guest should never overstay his welcome–”

“Of course he’s staying.” Rose looked up from where she was scooping a paste of sticky green from the mortar. “I’m not so cruel as to send him away before I’ve put his hair back to some semblance of normality. Can you picture him walking through the streets, looking as he does now?”

“I have a hat,” Hannibal put in mildly. “Besides, it’s dark. Not that the denizens of the Swamp have shown previous interest in my hair color in any type of light.”

“Stay the night,” January said.

Eyes still closed, Hannibal smiled, small and to himself. “All right.”

For a little while there was silence, as Rose spread the rest of the paste along Hannibal’s hair. Finally she frowned to herself. “There. I suppose we’ll see if that’s any more effective than the others. Be still until it dries, and I’ll make sure you have all the callas you can eat.” She rubbed her hands on her apron, sighed when that made not the smallest difference to the stains on her fingers, and dipped a corner of the apron in the water pitcher, half-sitting on her stool as she set to work at scrubbing them away.

“As still as the dead.” Hannibal blindly patted the floor beside himself, searching for the coffee he’d set down, but obediently didn’t shift his head to look. 

Hannibal had had to roll the sleeves of the shirt to make use of his hands, and his wrists looked even narrower than usual, sticking out of the thick folds of fabric. January caught the reaching hand; he was tempted to turn it over and touch the softer skin of the palm, to lace his fingers between Hannibal’s long, thin ones, but he only directed it to the cup. “What color are you trying for, anyway? None of these seem very, well, natural. Though of course I wouldn’t criticize you for the world...”

“I know.” Rose smiled at him. “Red, mostly. I don’t think it’s a color that ever could look right on Hannibal; his eyes are too dark, for one. But I’m not sure anything I’ve attempted is a success. It’s just different shades of wrong. This one, though,” she leaned forward to indicate the darkest of his pigtails, “I wanted to get back to his natural color. That was easier than the red, though it’s still not perfect.” She studied it. “Does it seem to have a blue tone to you?”

Hannibal heaved a sigh. “I’d ask to borrow a mirror, but I think I prefer not to know.”

“Probably the wiser choice,” January agreed. “At least one of us won’t have to suffer.”

“Hush. It’s only temporary.” Rose laid her palm on Hannibal’s cheek. “You’re still very handsome.”

“I knew I could have faith in you, Rose.” He turned his head to press his lips against her hand, lightly at first, but then a second time with more insistence. His voice was earnest when he said, “Come live with me and be my love.” 

She laughed and pulled away, but her eyes were warm as she looked down at him. “Come where? I thought you’d agreed to stay here.”

January slipped off his seat to kneel on the floor by Hannibal’s side, catching his attention by brushing a thumb along the sweep of his collarbone, stopping just short of where it disappeared under the neck of the shirt. “Now, remember,” he said softly, leaning in, “Rose said not to move.”

Hannibal’s eyes widened. “You can’t be serious,” he said, but, true to his word, he held his head motionless as January kissed him, only opening his mouth, his hands coming up to clutch at January’s shoulders. January shifted to his neck, dragged his tongue over the curve where it arched back to rest against the table, then sealed his lips over that sensitive skin and sucked; he could feel the small tremors running through Hannibal as he struggled not to move, could hear him draw in a harsh breath. January kissed him again, deepening it until Hannibal gave up and flexed under him, head lifting and pressing into the kiss. 

January sat back on his heels, smiling as Hannibal followed him, having entirely abandoned any attempt at stillness. Hannibal kissed him, brief but fervent. “Let’s take these out,” January said, tugging at the string tying one of Hannibal’s red-dyed pigtails.

“No.” Rose had moved closer, and she quickly took the hair from January’s hand, tucking it safely behind Hannibal’s ear. When they both looked at her, she added defensively, “I need to be able to distinguish one dye from the next tomorrow, so I can see how they set overnight. And besides, I want to look at the colors in the day; the light’s much stronger than what I have now.” She rubbed her hand across January’s shoulders, then worked her fingers into his cravat, pulling it loose, and said, her voice lower, “It needn’t mean you stop what you were doing.”

January circled her hips with his arm and pulled her tight against his side, turning his face into the softness of her waist to breathe in her scent, sweet under the sharp tang of chemicals. She put her hand to his head and held him there, so that he spoke into her belly, her skin warm and close to his lips, separated only by a thin layer of cloth. “Is there anything else, my dear, or could we perhaps retire to bed now?”

“Well, since you mention it, there was one other thing–” she said, but he could hear the amusement in her voice, and he stood and kissed her before she could finish the sentence. She leaned into him, her breasts pressing soft against his chest, and twined her arms behind his head, catching and pulling him more firmly down to her mouth. When she let him go, January was breathing hard. 

He glanced aside to find Hannibal still sitting at their feet, face turned up to watch them. January laughed and reached down to pull him up; Rose caught him by the other arm and drew him to her. “There,” January said. “Now let’s see how long I can keep the both of you from thinking about dyes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hannibal citations:
> 
> "And go we know not where,  
> to lie in cold obstruction and to rot"  
> -Measure for Measure, Shakespeare
> 
> "for myself alone  
> And not my yellow hair."  
> -For Anne Gregory, William Butler Yeats
> 
> The title is from 'The Rape of the Lock' by Alexander Pope.


End file.
